


<div id=”queSera”>

by Cattgirl



Category: Ava's Demon
Genre: Gen, prudith gets sliced and diced, que sera sera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattgirl/pseuds/Cattgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nice dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	<div id=”queSera”>

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a weird little drabble I crapped out at midnight last night because I wanted to get it off my chest.

Your anger is red hot, like magma or something molten, like the tiny girl who cowers below its force in this cramped chamber they told you was a gateway to Paradise.

_It should have been me!_ This is the phrase that plays through your head on repeat. _I worked so hard for this! I gave Him my life. I sold Him my soul. I would see Him and hear Him and speak His word, but this quivering child is the receiver of His favor?! It should have been me._ This is what you are thinking and feeling and shouting. You are livid and the force of your anger is blinding you, but somewhere subconsciously you have never felt so alive.

And there’s a prick in your scalp. You thought you were imagining it, that it was some psychosomatic force brought on by the intensity of your rage, but it persists. The milliseconds stretch through hours and the needle eats through bone. You are sleeping.

Consciousness floats away like layers of gas off a star gone supernova; once a flaming red supergiant but now a quiet white dwarf. A nice dream, roses on a piano. Your hands might be resting upon a keyboard. The ivory feels plastic beneath your insubstantial fingers and, though you have never seen this instrument before, you understand it. You press down tentatively on one key. Middle C. The note rings through the nothingness and you understand.

Unbidden, your fingers play out another chord, and another. Somewhere outside of your own existence, your own experience, there is another you. She is in great pain, but she is so far away that you do not care. She weeps for you. The scent of roses hangs in the air even as the other you does the same in some other direction.

The music is quickening. Something is wrong, and it does not seem so far from you any longer. Your fingers are having trouble touching the keys. It is as though your fingers are too short. You grow numb. Pins and needles.

The chords keep playing out, but now they sound discordant, grating, in your ears. You shut your eyes, but you can somehow still see the piano before you. You swallow your fear.

The pain sets in, first slowly, then—save me, TITAN have mercy!—all at once. Your head is splitting open and you are being strangled and covered in ice. You can’t feel your hands anymore. The music keeps playing like a funeral dirge and you do not understand.

Someone is crying out, but it can’t be you. You cannot speak. The sound draws your attention to the other you existing in another world, and with a sudden snap, the two of you reunite.

In a lucid flash, you see the shards of your broken body bathed in blue for an instant, and then they are swallowed by a void. The girl in red still cowers on the ground before you, but you are no longer angry. You are no longer sure what you are besides suffering and a hazy memory of rose petals scattered across a piano.

Paralyzed, you drop, every twisted nerve screaming agony even as your new ears sing the lullaby of TITAN to your exhausted mind. The red girl weeps, her fear raw and visceral like you.

You try to lift your head—is it even really yours?—from the cold ground, but the stabbing pain of a thousand migraines blasts through your brittle skull and the torn muscles in your neck cry out for mercy. You don’t want TITAN. You do not want TITAN. You want relief. You want death. You stare desperately at her, willing her to end you quickly and mercifully. She is breathing fast even as your chest refuses to rise and fall. Her eyes overflow with tears even as yours burn dry behind new lenses made for someone else. Once again, you are angry.

_It should have been her._

As you die on a metal floor, a memory is drawn from the recesses of your ravaged brain. You are so small, so young, TITAN had not yet graced your ancestral home planet with his gospel. You are with your mother, and though you long ago forgot her face in favor of TITAN’s visage, you are content in her embrace. Perhaps it is one last rush of dopamine released by your dying brain, but you feel so safe in her presence that the notion of TITAN seems hollow in comparison. She draws you into her arms and says something to you that you might have heard her say once or twice in your short life.

“Que sera, sera.”

What will be will be. You understand.  


The memory strikes a chord with you as you pass away.


End file.
